My name is P. Culiar. I live with my family ´the Circus´ in the outlands of the Wandering Marshes in the west. If you’ve ever heard of it you’d know that it’s a shapeless land with mouldy brown tussocks and soiled water. All sky here is clouded white and it runs over the edges of the world like mucus mist from where the Circus is resting. I have never travelled near the edges, for I have not dared, but those who have, say that you can see light from the sun roaming from beneath the flat. If you’ve ever heard of it, you’ll pray you’ll never come here. Gliding pale and naked, the Marshes sometimes get passed through by cities, fleeting silently, overroaming the shadow from which their memory has slipped though time. That time is when we keep our performances. For an empty crowd - benches lying restless, waiting, for whatever never comes. Life, what is life. Everlasting neverlasting sneaking creeping moaning life. Drenched in the smear of the marshes breath. I have friends, you see...